Page 21 of The Mistletoe Dare

She stared at him in outrage. “How pompous you sound.”

“I’m a duke,” he repeated slowly, as if she were a half-wit.

“Pfft. You’re still just a man, and an ill-tempered, rude one at that.”

He bristled, his eyes glittering. She had the sudden notion he was enjoying himself. Stranger still, so was she.

“And you are a graceless, mannerless, baggage.”

“Probably,” Georgie replied cheerfully. “But at least I’m happy about it.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” he demanded.

“That you’re not. You’re unhappy and cross but you don’t know what to do about it, and so you take it out on the rest of us because you envy us.”

“Envy… you?” She might as well have accused him of being an imposter, he was so outraged.

Georgie grinned at him and shrugged. “I tell you what. As an act of charity, for it is Christmas after all, I shall teach you to play a game.”

He folded his massive arms, rendering her speechless for several seconds. “I don’t want to play a game.”

Georgie forced herself back to the conversation. “That’s because you don’t know how. Now, I shall begin. I say, ‘I went to the shops and bought a book,’ then you must repeat the sentence but with another object. I will tell you if the object is correct or not, but they must have something in common.”

“What in common?”

“Ah, that is what you have to figure out, that’s the game part of it.”

“This is ridiculous.”

“Of course it is. That’s the point of a game. It’s fun.”

“I want to go home.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake. I give up.” Georgie said in exasperation and turned to walk away from him, startled to find a large hand dart out and snare her wrist. Goodness, but he was fast. Sensation prickled up her arm, making her cheeks burn, and he dropped his hold on her like she’d burned him.

“Don’t go,” he said, his voice all low and gravelly, sending shivers down her spine.

“Why?” she demanded, wishing that hadn’t sounded quite so breathless, but he had startled her, that was all.

He gave an irritated huff before admitting, “I don’t know where Jules is, and I don’t know anyone else here I can bear talking to.”

“You mean you can bear talking to me? Why, your grace, I may swoon.” Georgie placed a hand over her heart and fluttered her eyelashes at him.

Rochford snorted. “Yes, yes, very amusing, I’m sure. You should be on the stage. Think of it as another act of charity, why don’t you?”

“Yes, I suppose I can do that,” Georgie said gravely. “Like reading to a doddering old man whilst he dribbles into his soup.”

“Charming.”

“No, you’re not the least bit charming. Frankly, I’d rather take the toothless soup drinker, but that’s life. No one said it was fair.”

He stared down at her and she thought she saw amusement in his eyes. They were a deep slate grey she saw now but there was a halo of gold around the pupil, a warm colour, though she had never seen warmth in his expression. She thought she saw a hint of it now, of the man he might have been if life had been kinder, and she had the sudden urge to see more, to reach past the impenetrable façade.

“Life’s a vindictive bitch, Lady Georgina. Sooner you recognise that fact the easier it is to bear.”

He raised his eyebrows at her, his arm still awaiting her hand.

Georgina slid her hand over his sleeve, too aware of the power of the man beneath the material. Even though she wore gloves, and there was his coat and shirt between them, she was viscerally aware of his skin, of heavy muscle and bone shifting under her fingertips. Her heart gave an erratic thud and a strange, liquid warmth pooled deep in her core.